Opening
by sarramaks
Summary: One shot set post 4.07 Commuted Sentences . Flack and Angell have their first Irish coffee. First in a planned series of one shots.


_This started life as the flash back in a one-shot, but then over took the rest of the tale. It is different in style to Hotwired because it is kind of an extract. I tried to manipulate it, but it just wouldn't sound right sighs. Its the first in a series of one shots which tie in with various episodes. Let me know what you think, if there are any aspects of Flack and Angell's relationship you would like me to explore. There is some 'adult' humour in this. I just can't help but think that Angell, working in what's mainly a male environment and having five brothers, wouldn't have an 'adult' sense of humour._

_Thank you to everyone who nominated and voted for me in the fanfic awards. This oneshot is for you - I hope you like it!_

_A/N: The characters do not belong to me, they belong to CBS. Unfortunately._

Opening

The first night of 'Irish' coffee had been after the Michael Bentley case, after they had flirted in the car and she had accused him of parading his 'game'. The banter had simmered down to professional discussion and neither had wanted to go straight home, or out with the rest of their colleagues, too wired to seek peace and needing to give the day a post-mortem. Instead they headed for a Starbucks, but never got there. Angell noticed a sign outside Hanagan's displaying the evening's menu which had included corned beef hash. Flack hadn't needed much persuasion. Too much Guinness and then whisky had followed along with more banter, the professionalism left behind with dessert.

"This isn't much of a coffee, Jess," he said when their conversation had lulled somewhat.

"It's Irish coffee," she said. "You should know about those. Good Irish catholic family."

He gave her that smile that could charm the birds from the trees, not that he knew it. "I always had a lot to say at confession," Flack said.

"I bet you made the priest's blood run cold," she said.

Flack blushed – she'd found that she had a talent for making his skin turn crimson, and that she enjoyed doing so. "You have the wrong impression of me," he said, his tone serious.

She looked at him with humour, weighing him up. "I hear water cooler gossip and I've heard about some of yours and Messer's nights out."

He held his hands up and looked – or tried to look innocent. "It was all Messer. I'm the one who talks to 'the friend'. Seriously."

She laughed, beckoning to the bartender to bring them two more drinks.

"You're as bad as Messer, Angell. I sure as hell won't be able to walk home after this," he said, finishing off the drink in front of him.

"Stay at mine," Angell had found herself offering without thinking.

Flack had put down his glass with a slight bang. "You sure your dad doesn't dust you for prints? Mine are in the system, you know."

"Why, you been accused of breaking too many hearts, Flack?" she found she couldn't resist.

He glared. "You know, Jess, if you were Danny…"

"I'd be right over there chatting up the blonde in the short skirt," she had pointed at the girl. To his credit he didn't look.

"You trying to make me get my game out again, Angell? 'Cause I sure ain't falling for it this time," he folded his arm, his gaze almost daring her.

"And what would you're game have made you say?" the drinks had arrived on their table. Two Connemara whiskies.

"Why look over there when…" he had pointed at her, refusing to finish the sentence. She had looked away, feeling herself blush and knowing that if she couldn't take the heat she shouldn't start the fire. "That was a line, Angell."

She allowed eye contact, whisky and adrenaline rushing through her veins, the detective in front of her causing a tsunami. "This is dangerous ground, colleague," she'd taken a sip of her drink, the liquid burning her throat as she swallowed.

"And if I stay at yours it gets even more so," he said.

"I was offering you my couch," she clarified. "Not my bed." She knew that if he read her eyes he would see the word 'yet' written there. The alcohol made her feelings clear. She liked him. There was an attraction there and she didn't want to ignore it, couldn't, even, as it burned like the whisky. Slow and smooth.

He'd downed his whisky. "I was thinking maybe you'd take the couch?"

"Just how I like my men," she said. "Any old fashioned sentiments completely bred out."

"I take offence to that, Angell. My mom taught me to be a gentleman."

She laughed, knowing that to be true.

They walked back to her apartment, straight lines something that didn't exist, recounting tales of their colleagues, then past beaus. She told him about her last boyfriend who had sulked when she'd refused to take time off work to go on a business trip with him. He told her about Devon, and how being single was agreeing with him, although he could always be tempted by the right woman. His eyes had fixed on her as he'd said the words, and she smiled.

"Is that a line, Flack?"

He laughed, the sound echoing through an empty street as they approached her home, filling her chest and bringing the night to life.

She made them coffee, strong and black, and they sat together and watched the night sky through open blinds. Both were on shift at ten in the morning and as the clock, which was an heirloom from her great-aunt, struck three the silence grew thick and clammy between them.

She didn't sleep. Not because of the alcohol, although that was what she told him; but because of his nearness. Her mind toyed over their conversations, the knowledge that he liked her, the blue eyes that she could swim in. She wondered what the scar on his chest looked like and felt more awake than ever.

Flack was up before her when she eventually managed to stumble into the kitchen. His shirt was dishevelled after sleeping in it, his hair stick up on one side. She laughed at him, unable to resist. "So this is why you're so good at one night stands?" she'd said.

"Funny, Jess, funny. Coffee without the Irish?" she'd nodded and he'd passed her the cup. "What we talked about last night…"

"You remember? You like an elephant in any other ways?" she had kept her face expressionless. He hadn't looked shocked. She'd smiled. "Stays between us. You didn't need to say it."

He'd nodded. "I know," Flack had studied her. "I bet you never had a guy who wanted a one night stand." She knew he had thought before speaking, his tone soft. He meant what he had said.

For a moment she was conscious of the old pajamas she was wearing, the first thing she had pulled from out of a drawer. Her hair was mussed and tangled and yesterday's mascara was probably now adhered to the bags under her eyes. She had never been overly self-conscious about the way she looked; yes, she took some pride, but it wasn't at the forefront of her mind. Now though, she felt awkward. "You've still got beer goggles on."

He smiled, sitting down. "You sleep much?"

"Not at all."

"Me neither. I wish I'd remembered that today was not my day off." He sat back, head resting on cushions, his eyes lowering. She could smell the remains of his aftershave and could see the beginnings of stubble emerging from his skin. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and his eyes hungover. An element of bad boy.

She sat down next to him on the couch, the coffee drank. Sunlight had started to seep through the window, but her eyelids still closed, Flack's deep breaths lulling her into the sandman's reach as her head fell onto his shoulder. Any thoughts were anaesthetised as her mind slipped into a dreamless sleep.

It would not be the last time they were late for work.

_Please review and let me know what you think! I wasn't entirely sure about it..._


End file.
